Grocery Shopping
by mircosedy
Summary: John is always the one who does the grocery shopping. But what happens when Sherlock gives in and does the shopping himself?


_Just a little dabble I wrote a few months ago- Enjoy! Oh, and this is my FIRST post on here, so hooray for me! _

_Reviews would be marvelous! :)_

* * *

"Sherlock." The consulting detective glanced up as John pushed a scrap of paper at him. "There's even a list. Just walk in, grab what's on it, pay for it, and walk out. It's not so bad."

Sherlock and John were seated at the worn wooden table, clutters of papers and random artifacts surrounding Sherlock, who was bent over a newspaper. John was leaning on the other side of the table, hands clutching the sides, letting the list sit between them like a peace treaty. Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back so he was staring at the pale ceiling.

"Dull."

"Excuse me?"

"So mundane, so domestic. Grocery shopping," he nearly spat out, as if it were a concept he held in utmost contempt.

John straightened. "Yeah, well, someone's got to do it." He glanced at his watch, then groaned with a roll of his eyes. "Please. I'm late."

Sherlock didn't answer, only steepled his hands together and brought them up to his chin. He closed his eyes. John stood there a moment more, feeling irritated. Then he glanced at his watch again and grabbed his coat.

"There'd better be some food in the house when I get back," he warned, shoving his arms in the sleeves and jerking the front of his coat. He stood there awkwardly a moment more, then turned on his heel and left the flat.

Sherlock listened to the sound of John's footsteps descending down the stairs until they faded and there was the faint sound of a door slamming. Breathing out slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes. Then he got up from his chair and went to the window, silently watching as John made his way down the sidewalk, hands in fists at his sides.

With another sigh, Sherlock flopped onto the couch. He supposed he'd better get the darned groceries. But he hadn't gone shopping for groceries in ages. Normally he wouldn't bother. John would get them whenever needed, but now it appeared as if his flat mate and colleague was going on something of a strike.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and laid there for another moment, relishing the coziness of his navy blue bathrobe and loathing the thought of getting out of it. Finally, he sprang from the couch, snatching the list John had left him as he brushed past the table.

* * *

There weren't many items on John's list. Sherlock would have grabbed a basket, but found there were none left. In irritation, he realized he would have to grab a cart. "So domestic," he muttered to himself as he wrapped his gloved hands around a cart handle and pulled. It jostled with the rest of the carts, but wouldn't come free. In frustration, he jerked it back with perhaps too much strength, and it came loose with a loud crashing sound.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock straightened and readjusted his scarf before grabbing the stubborn cart and pushing it further into the store, ignoring the stares of a mother and small child. It became apparent that the front left wheel was gimpy. It jittered and rolled all over the place, making it difficult to steer. Still, Sherlock refused to appear phased by this and made his way to the produce section. He checked John's list. Apples, carrots, and broccoli jumped out at him. Sherlock restrained from making a face. Broccoli? Why would John want broccoli? It was perhaps the most vile vegetable on the planet.

Sherlock stuffed the list into his pocket with a shake of his head and went on with his shopping, skipping the broccoli. What he really wanted was coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. He skipped right to the hot beverages aisle and scanned the shelves for his favorite brand. He spotted what he wanted right above an elderly woman who was hunched over a jar of ground coffee, attempting to read the nutrition facts with her spectacles. By the way she squinted, she wasn't getting much out of it.

Pretending to be interested with the disgusting cheap coffee, Sherlock waited for her to move. About twenty seconds passed by before the elderly woman shakily set the coffee back on the shelf. Then, to Sherlock's piercing annoyance, she plucked another one off of the shelf and began read the back of that one.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock moved towards her. "Excuse me," he began. The woman's head jerked around.

"Waddaya want?" she snapped.

Sherlock bristled, but forced himself to stay calm. "I would like my coffee, if you please."

"Go make your own coffee," she grumbled, and went back to trying to read the labels.

Brushing off her rudeness, Sherlock tried again. "You are in my way," he said slowly. Oh, these people with such tiny brains were so bothersome!

She only grunted, and Sherlock was out of patience, so he stood on his toes and reached above her head, grasping the coffee. He hadn't anticipated her alarm.

With a screech, the elderly woman pushed at him, making him fall back, dropping the coffee. He slammed against the shelves behind him, causing several boxes of cereal to come tumbling down on top of him.

A tall, lanky lad with rather large glasses poked his head around the corner. "Oi!" he cried out, stepping into the aisle. "What's going on here?"

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his pile of cereal boxes. The boy was wearing the red shirt and pale khaki pants that said he worked here. Judging from the damp spots on his shirt and front of his legs, he had been cleaning up a milk spill. The way he held himself, slightly bent forward and leaning a little to the right, hinted that he was a clumsy fellow and probably caused the spill himself.

The woman was pointing a shaking finger at Sherlock and making a terrible fuss. "He attacked me, he did!" She went on and on and Sherlock wished she would just shut up. The lanky fellow hovered above him, apparently not sure what to make out of the situation.

"Sir, you're going to have to apologize to the lady," he said sternly, although his cheeks were turning a splotchy red, a dead give away at his uneasiness in the whole situation.

Sherlock groaned, then pushed himself up to his feet, readjusting his scarf and nodding to the woman. "She doesn't like coffee, she's more of a tea person."

The young man frowned, and the old hag tilted her head in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"You're looking for a gift for the nice young woman –Maggie-who has helped you settle into your new retirement home," Sherlock clarified, speaking to the now bewildered woman in front of him. "But you don't really like this new place, Edgar's Home for the Elderly, because the staff is low and your neighbor smells. I detected the scent of male body odor underneath the over-applied body spray you have tucked in your purse, next to the final paperwork for Edgar's. You might want to get that in before the deadline today. Back to the young woman- she left you her number in case you needed anything else, it's on the same decorated piece of paper as your list, which consists of a "present for Maggie" but says nothing about coffee. You don't care for coffee yourself, judging from the lack of yellow stains on your teeth, but you always assumed that the beverage she carried around with her in a thermostate was coffee. Wrong- it's hot tea, obviously from the drop or two that was left on the list that also has her number on it in different handwriting. Thus, she wrote it and not you. How do I know she's of the younger sort? There's a nice little doodle of a flower and a smiley face drawn next to the number, which was more likely to have been done by someone in the teen to early twenties category. So, in summary- Don't get her the coffee."

All of this was said so quickly that Sherlock didn't expect them to understand most of it. He gave a cocky little smile and nod to the woman whose mouth was now agape, and brushed past the stunned young employee after grabbing his coffee from the ground. Reaching for his cart, he plopped the instant coffee in with a rattle and pushed it out of the aisle.

After grabbing some milk and eggs, Sherlock made his way to a check out, shoving his noticeably empty cart through. The cashier, a female teen with hair that had been dyed several times and piercings in several places gave him a scoffing smirk. "We have baskets, you know."

"Yes, well, perhaps you should talk to your manager about ordering a few more. You were out," Sherlock said in irritation.

"Obviously."

The girl began to ring up Sherlock's things, but paused when she lifted up the apples. "4133," Sherlock said quickly. She looked up at him in annoyance.

"You sure?"

"Gala apples. 4133. After observing your terribly slow recollection of the PLU, I thought I'd just tell you what it was. Now type it in so we can speed things up a bit."

Flustered, she weighed the apples and punched in the numbers.

Sherlock sighed. "Also, if you're into stealing money, I would try a different trade. Taking bills out of the cash drawer can only last so long."

Her head snapped up, face flushing. "What-"

"Sticking out of your sleeve," Sherlock said in a mock hushed voice, leaning over the pin machine and sticking his face close to hers. Intimidation. It was a marvelous motivator.

The girl tugged down on her sleeve, visibly swallowing. Sherlock straightened, swiped his card with maybe a little too much flare, snatched up his bags, and left the store without even bothering to wait for a receipt.

Grocery shopping.

It wasn't too bad, actually.

He might tag along with John next time.


End file.
